M.I.A. (aka Maya Arulpragasam) spent her early childhood in war-torn Sri Lanka where her father was a member of the Tamil revolutionary party, a group both hailed for its heroic opposition and likewise frequently was implicated in terrorist activities.

Raised in culturally diffuse London, M.I.A. first pursued visual media (she directed a tour film for Elastica) until an eye-opening encounter with the dynamic capabilities of the Roland MC-505 Groovebox inspired her to create a hip-hop-influenced brand of dancehall, a gleeful jaunt between genres, generations and continents.

As a newly established Internet sensation and fervently hyped future star of the hipster set, M.I.A. quite predictably has become a linchpin for a number of purely extramusical debates. In particular, there's the question of whether M.I.A. cynically or irresponsibly has co-opted the revolutionary politics of her past, whether she's fetishized her "otherness" for audiences who have far less first-hand experience with genuine political unrest (basically most of the United Kingdom and United States).

Personally, I think people who assume she's carelessly juggling loaded metaphors and imagery don't give M.I.A. enough credit. To me, she falls perfectly in line with an artistic legacy of slippery aesthetic intentions and biographical blurriness that extends from Bob Dylan to David Bowie to Madonna to Beck.

Each of those artists offers immediate visceral thrills in their music, and yet we never really feel like we can pin them down as people or even as characters. Not beholden to any personal or artistic foundation, they can move freely between styles and identities without any real worries about authenticity.

M.I.A. utilizes this chameleonic stance to brilliant effect, and "Arular" is an embarrassment of riches when it comes to sounds, words and juxtapositions that hit you square in the solar plexus.

Each new song is a different culture and costume for M.I.A., contending with cartoonish jungle noises and deliberately plodding keys on the purposefully static kidnapping fairy tale "Amazon," then masterfully dancing back and forth between coquette and temptress against the ringing guitar strings and malfunctioning effects of "Hombre," the wordless chorus communicating sex better than any carefully crafted come-on.

Her bio may spark tireless blather on message boards, but even after "Arular" is over, we still don't know M.I.A., who she is and what she truly feels and believes.

It's an eminently encouraging sign too, because it means she might just be the kind of artist who can own and manipulate her own image rather than the other way around.

Blueprint

"1988"

(Rhymesayers)

Grade: C+

Just like any Elephant 6 record or Wes Anderson film, Blueprint's "1988" reaches into the past in order to deal with the present, not only in search of stylistic templates but also aesthetic and spiritual direction.

While the Ohio-based emcee doesn't exactly marinate on '88-specific themes here (no shots at Reagan or odes to Kangol), his generational biases couldn't be clearer. 'Print pointedly states his distaste for contemporary pop-rap, while he quotes and samples the likes of KRS-One, Shock G and "Illmatic"-era Nas.

Of course, if he really wants to topple the 50 Cents and Fat Joes of the hip-hop world, 'Print needs to present a real alternative rather than just play the killjoy, especially when his view of male-female relations isn't much friendlier (and a whole lot more disingenuous - see "Tramp" and "Liberated").

"1988" does deliver some self-contained pleasures, like the glinty guitar-powered beat of "Boombox" and the "Sanford and Son" slapstick funk of "Where's Your Girlfriend?"

Nonetheless, the central conceit of the album falls flat, as 'Print uses hip-hop's supposed golden era as a security blanket rather than a jump-off to vanquish mainstream foes. Much like the majority of his indie-rap comrades, 'Print falls victim to John Kerry Syndrome, seeming to exist only in opposition to another, better-known brand.

50 may not even be able to hear it, but there goes another quarter in his piggy-bank.

Beck

"Guero"

(Geffen)

Grade: A-

So Beck's a Scientologist now, married to Giovanni Ribisi's sister and even more publicly inscrutable than ever.

What's even more interesting, however, is his music now seems to be unconsciously mirroring the framework of his newfound faith. Scientologists believe we're governed neither by mind nor body, but rather exist as fundamentally all-encompassing spiritual essences called thetans.

Up until now, the majority of Beck's best work has been achieved by piecing together exhilarating fragments of sound, slang and melody into brilliant kaleidoscopic pastiches. Yet on the newly released "Guero," Beck has begun to gravitate away from isolated moments of instant gratification through surrealistic lyrics (mind) and ridiculous grooves (body) and for the first time seems to be putting honest-to-goodness songwriting at the top of his agenda.

Beck's craftsmanship on "Guero" hangs together better than anything else he's ever done, from the summertime melancholy of "Girl" to the blissfully cloud-breaking melodies of "Earthquake Weather." It's not all affecting guitar pop either - Beck stretches out on the bluesy workout "Scarecrow" and effortlessly glides over the global hip-hop beat-funk of "Hell Yes" and "Que Onda Guero."

Sure, the highs on "Guero" aren't nearly as giddy or strangely wonderful as the very best of "Odelay" or "Midnite Vultures," but don't blame Scientology - this album's way better than most of Dylan's Christian stuff.